Realities
by BelleLitteraire
Summary: Where is he? she kept thinking. I want to tell him I love him, I'm sorry. 2-part futurefic. Winner of a Highclere Award (for Novella).
1. Chapter 1: Sybil

_Story takes place months after "On the Morning of My Wedding Day: Reflections"._

* * *

**Chapter 1: Sybil**

Dusk was settling on the leafy neighborhood, where little boys and girls had been happily enjoying hot, sticky temperatures. It was a moist evening, one in which just standing still and breathing made one break out in droplets. The air hung oppressively, enveloping Sybil like a shroud, a cocoon of unhappiness that hung over since that morning and she was desperate to shrug it off.

Soon the footsteps and garrulous banter of Tans would replace the children's jovial voices and the calls of their mothers. The minutes continued to tick on. Waning light above the trees was casting a filigree of shadows on the pavement. If she stood at the window long enough, a bright cold silver moon would then emerge in the sky, against the backdrop of a sable night. How many nights has she stood at this window, waiting for her husband to come home? Tonight, especially, she urgently wished he would come home soon. Should she stay up and wait for him? Should she wait for his key to turn in the lock—and then? Would she greet him, or sneak up into bed, pretend to be asleep? Would he want to see her after all that had been said?

But Sybil couldn't hover at the window any longer and replaced the curtain. _Where is he?_ she kept thinking_. I want to tell him how much I love him, I'm sorry._

**x-x**

They had parted that morning angry, the last sounds that echoed through their house were hissed, vituperative words and the slam of a door. Sybil was left standing in the kitchen, grown cavernous and hollow as Tom had shouted, "Maybe we shouldn't have gotten married!"

Of course, now having spent the entire day left with nothing to think about except that stinging row and with no one to keep her company except a kicking baby in her belly, Sybil let loose all her pent up emotions and wept long heart-wrenching tears. In those sobs she released feelings of loneliness, anxiety for Tom's safety, regret for the argument, and longing for her family. She thought of lines from her mother's letter she's taken to reading over and over: _We miss you terribly…. Papa and I were thrilled to hear your news! We would love for you and Tom to come home—for as long a visit as you both can make….Your Papa sends his love._

_You silly girl_, she chastised herself, wiping away her tears, _how did your life become a war zone? _Had she gotten caught up in the romance of living happily ever after with Tom? After what he said this morning, perhaps he was no longer able to keep his promise of devoting every minute to her happiness. Mama always told her that things would be better in the morning. _How wrong,_ Sybil thought. _It is __**not**__ always clearer in the morning._

Sybil shook her head and drew in a breath. She knew better. She did not want to let those thoughts out of Pandora's box—she wanted to keep them locked away. To entertain them would be to let doubt's cold fingers creep and encircle her heart and her mind, squeezing out happiness and love, consuming any flicker of feeling for Tom.

Deep in the recesses of her heart she knew his job was putting incredible pressure on him—despite the harsh words exchanged that morning. He worked hard, took his work very seriously, and took pride in what it bought for them. After their wedding she was excited to move out of Mrs. Branson's home and into the red brick 2-story house Tom and his brother Tristan found. And it was all theirs—bought with Tom's savings, earnings, and the dowry granted by Papa. She hardly realized she had any sense of the aesthetic but somehow, it was brought out of her and she delighted in decorating and furnishing her own home, pleased that Tom gave her free rein in choosing fabrics and wall colors. She relished in her creativity in bringing out each room's character and personality. The overall effect was tasteful, but not garish or gauche, practical and comfortable. It was very much a home, a space that she was happy to share with Tom.

She placed her fingers on her lips as she smiled at the memory of the first few days in this house. Tom wanted to "christen" every room, and she found herself eager to comply. The hardwood floors and chafing rugs did nothing to dampen her desire for him, and the more she knew about her husband—really knew—she couldn't get enough. A whole world of knowledge had been unlocked since her wedding night and since then she ardently matched Tom's passion. He knew just how to set her pulse racing and hot blood coursing in her veins. She tingled whenever he murmured her name or an endearment _sotto voce_, shiver in response to his roaming fingers that lightly brushed her all over. In those moments nothing else mattered except being with the one man she could not live without.

She remembered the night they were in this room, when he looked right into her eyes and said, "I can't believe you're with me," she let herself surround him, intertwining her fingers with his so she couldn't tell anymore which were hers. He pulled her into his embrace, and they collided urgently, her waves of thick hair tumbling on her shoulders, covering them both. She felt him bringing her to a crescendo, all consuming, like the crash of an ocean wave. And afterwards, lying with him within and under blankets, in a tangle of limbs, she couldn't imagine ever being separated from him. She pressed so close to him, feeling his chest rise and fall and his heart beating beneath her palm. Looking at his fine profile, she watched his nose flare gently as he breathed. She'd felt such warmth—both inside and out—and she closed her eyes, the last thought before drifting to sleep…wondering whose body was warming whose.

A nudge from her baby shook her from her reverie, quickening her heart. She instinctively placed her hands on her growing midsection. A leanbh, y_ou probably came about in this very room, _she thought. As Sybil turned from the window her eyes fell upon the first framed picture she and Tom bought for this sitting room.

They were at an art dealer's shop and Sybil had marveled at a picture of a park scene, featuring a serene lake and two trees whose leaves were shades of crimson, gold and amber. In the far corner of the picture, a solitary couple sat on a park bench, hand-in-hand, facing the lake. The man's head was slightly tilted up to gaze upon the blue sky. "Look, darling," Sybil had said. "That's us. And the whole of the natural world before us." Tom chuckled, considering the picture, "I rather agree," and he squeezed her hand before looking for the dealer.

Now she looked at that picture, hanging above the mantle in the sitting room—thinking how long ago it seemed that she saw herself and him as that couple at the cusp of realizing such promise, beholding a world of possibility. She sighed and walked to the kitchen to wrap Tom's dinner. He'd be late coming home again. "Or maybe not at all," she remarked to the empty air. Her movements slow, hampered by her distended belly, she covered the breadbasket, and wrapped the plate of chicken and potatoes with a kitchen cloth and put it inside the oven. On the stovetop, she put pot lids over the vegetables and the gravy. She smiled at her gravy—she may still be somewhat hopeless at making roasts—but she took great pride in her gravy, for finally, she could get it right. She started to wash her own dinner dishes when the ring of the telephone pierced the silence of the house.

Heavily and a little clumsily, she made her way over to the telephone in the hall. Sybil swallowed, hoping it was Tom. She picked up the handset. "Hello?"

An Irish lilt came clearly over the line but it wasn't the voice she hoped for. "Sybil, how are you dear? How are you doing in this heat?"

"Oh, hello, Ma. I'm fine, just feeling tired and a little unenergetic."

"Baby okay? Have you eaten?"

"Yes, baby's fine. I just finished dinner, but Tom's not home yet."

Mrs. Branson sighed. "I worry for him. It's so dangerous everywhere."

"I know. But he's got a deadline so I think he'll be coming home late again." Sybil's mind flew back to the morning's argument and she blinked rapidly to keep tears from falling and so her mother-in-law wouldn't hear her voice quivering.

"Bloody Tans everywhere. Just yesterday Tristan had a run in with a pair of them—piss drunk and spoiling for an argument."

Sybil's heart lurched and the memory of Tom's face, twisted in anger and pain as he told her of his cousin's death at the hands of an English soldier flashed before her. "Oh please tell me that Tristan's all right."

"Thank God that he's not that sort to get all fired up. He talked his way out of it, not to worry. Ah, but I shouldn't have told you, dear. I don't want to trouble either of you."

Sybil let out a breath of relief. She couldn't bear Tom's reaction if anything had happened to his brother. "I won't say anything to Tom—one less thing he needs to worry about. And I agree, Tristan's the exact opposite of Tom, but it's always a miracle to escape those Tans unscathed."

"I can't think why you two wouldn't consider going back to Downton, you know—just for your safety, until the babe comes."

If only Mrs. Branson was privy to the source of contention from just this morning. "Well, Tom's busy. I don't want to take him away from his work." She could almost picture Mrs. Branson's brow furrowing.

"Are you sure? I can talk to him. I've knocked sense into him before."

"It's all right, really, Ma. I appreciate it."

"Ah well. So do you want me to come over tomorrow? You need help with anything?" Of late Mrs. Branson had devoted her free time to helping Sybil and Tom with whatever cleaning and cooking they needed. Sybil had warmed to her, especially since she missed her own mother's hands-on care.

But she thought that she didn't really want her mother-in-law's boisterous company right now. "How about I call you if I do need you to come? I promise."

That seemed to pacify Mrs. Branson. "Well, all right. Drink plenty of cool water. And mind you don't need to get the oven going with any cake baking right now. Don't wear yourself out or get overheated."

Sybil couldn't help but smile. "You always are full of good advice, Ma. Thanks."

**x-x**

Sybil did have company for a brief time earlier that day. She was clearing all traces of the spoiled breakfast when she heard a knock on the back door. Pretty Mabel Gallagher stood at the threshold, head tilted, and lifting her hand in greeting. Mabel, originally from Canada, was a widow who'd lost her husband Michael a few months ago. Michael was a docker and union leader who was one of the key players in halting a movement of British supplies. There was talk of Michael's death as being an assassination, a reprisal for challenging the authority of the British navy, many of whose vessels were still standing out to sea.

Mabel was still deciding whether to return to Ottawa, but in the meantime, Sybil was grateful for her friendship. When she and Tom first moved into their house, and Sybil discovered that Mabel was a fellow expatriate, she rejoiced to have found a kindred spirit right next door. Slender and honey haired, with a porcelain face that almost glowed when she smiled, Mabel had an openness and warmth about her. Whenever she smiled, her expression diffused from her eyes, and it was a heavenly complement to her mellifluous laughter. She didn't smile as often these days, but Sybil admired her all the more for being one of the bravest people she knew.

"Hello. I'm on my way to the post office," she said brightly. "Do you want me to mail any letters for you?"

Sybil thought of the letter she had written to her mother the night before, a letter written during a long night of waiting again for Tom, one that, if her mother read between the lines, would say volumes about how lonely and tired she was, about how sometimes she thought about being a little girl again, how nice it would be for her mother to put her arms around her, about how she wished for one night to pass without the sounds of gunfire.

"Sybil?" Mabel was looking intently at her and reached out for her arm. "What's eating you?"

"Nothing," Sybil smiled. She made room for Mabel to step inside the kitchen. "And no, I don't have any letters for posting. Thanks for the offer."

Mabel sat on a kitchen chair and noticed the bits of broken ceramic on the dustpan. Her blue eyes searched Sybil's face. "I heard shouting this morning." Sybil blanched, and Mabel quickly reassured her, "Of course I don't mean to pry, you don't have to tell me anything, but I was out front and called out to Tom but he ignored me."

Mabel wore her heart on her sleeve, she had an infectious sweetness and unwavering loyalty—qualities that reminded Sybil of the best parts of Mary, Gwen and Anna. But the difference was that Mabel wasn't her moody sister. Or her maid, someone who was deferential to her, was trained to say the right things. Mabel called things how she saw them. Sybil decided to unburden herself. "We had a row. It was massive—we were both so spitting angry. We've had animated discussions before, you know, over politics, over when to quit the hospital, over his hours at the paper, even what to name the baby."

Mabel nodded. "I think discussion is a sign of a healthy relationship. It only shows that you both care enough about what the other thinks."

"But this was different. It's not just that we were being expressive or opinionated. We were vile, really unkind to each other." She hesitated, wanting to ask a question of Mabel that might mean bringing back painful memories. Only Sybil knew that while she put on a brave face to the world at large, Mabel was vulnerably lonely, especially whenever she talked about her late husband. But she was desperate for advice and she had no one else to talk to about this, so she went ahead and asked, "Did you and Michael ever quarrel?"

Mabel turned her eyes from Sybil's face and looked away, but she seemed to be looking inward, searching her memory. "Do you mean did I ever find Michael a pain in the ass? Of course I did. He was stubborn and pigheaded sometimes. But see, those qualities were also why I fell in love with him. He didn't give up on me, even when I wasn't sure about anything. He dug in his heels and said he wasn't leaving Ottawa without me."

Sybil twisted her ring, wanting to relieve some of the pressure it was causing on her swollen finger, but it was snug. "What finally convinced you to leave and come here?"

Mabel smiled softly, remembering. "He said that he couldn't help how he felt about me. He said he was born with a name that meant 'love of foreigners,' and if I took his name, and took a chance to leave my country behind, he would do everything to make me happy." Sybil tried to bite back tears—Tom had made her that same promise. She could never forget how he had earnestly held his hat in his hands, anticipating, hoping for a return promise from her, and she had dismissed his declaration.

Mabel looked back at Sybil, "Listen, you want to know what I think? Fight. It's better than not talking to each other or giving each other the silent treatment. But fight fair, and respect each other. I'm embarrassed to admit that I was a downright harpy when I got mad at Mike. But he never laid a hand on me, or cussed at me or called me names, even when I deserved it." Sybil nodded, and Mabel continued, "No matter what happened this morning, you still have Tom. And if anyone understands how hard it is to be here, so far from home, you know I do. It was a sacrifice, but I did it because I believed Mike was worth it. And if I can survive leaving Canada—which is a continent away—you can survive this."

**x-x**

A fragment of a memory flashes: a harsh glare of eastern light penetrating the kitchen windows, broken ceramic on the floor, a tipped teacup with spilled tea dripping from the table, amber liquid pooling, cooling on the polished linoleum. She unflinchingly locks gazes with Tom's icy eyes, which lower from hers. She remembers heaving, raging, feeling confrontational. A sibilant syllable started spewing from her mouth, and it turned into a phrase that she never thought she'd utter to him. "Sod off, Tom."


	2. Chapter 2: Tom

**Chapter 2: Tom**

Despite Sybil telling him not to get philosophical, Tom couldn't help it. He thought about how every life was defined as a series of decisions. Some did not come from you, such as your nativity or how you are raised. Most often, our decisions are ones we commit to—whether made deliberately or by default. And yet even those seemingly critical decisions are not made with fanfare or in a burst of sybilic lucidity. They are made in the shrouded haze of daily routine. And sometimes, they are made in the heat of split-second emotion.

Tom thought about the decisions he made that morning. He was trudging to work, his reverberating footsteps on the pavement feeling as heavy as his heart felt right now. He had stormed out the front gate and heard his neighbor Mabel calling out to him, but all he could think about was a tear-streaked, crumpled face, venom issuing from her lovely lips. Yet it was her eyes that transfixed him. It was seared in his memory that they hardened, no longer a soft azure, but a blazing sapphire. And he felt ashamed of himself.

_You're the bloody bastard, Branson,_ he thought. He felt sick at leaving home in a temper like that, slamming the door and the gate. He had almost turned back so he could apologize, and kiss her, as he habitually did, but his feet betrayed him and kept marching steadily on the pavement towards the office, away from her.

But how could he care about a party that Sybil was planning for her friend when he was spending his days covering strikes at the Dublin docks and railways, talking to working men whose families were suffering, and union leaders who were railing against the British government? He was entering conflict zones, bearing witness to the civilian collateral damage inflicted by the IRA and RIC. He couldn't bring those experiences home. He worried about causing her stress, so he kept all the darkness inside him, the terror, the violence, the hate. His burden became heavier, especially since he got his own letter.

**x-x**

Tom had awoken that fateful morning and looked over at his still sleeping wife. Her hair, always seeming to break free from their ribboned constraints, lay in wavy masses on her pillow. He blinked, recalling the night before, when he had come home weary after a long day of investigative research. Jamie Stewart, his editor, was becoming more and more overbearing, demanding to see a draft of his article on the arrival of the Auxiliaries. Stewart was a draconian, no-nonsense managing editor, who thought it ironic to have a writer on his team covering the conflict married to an Englishwoman, and he told Tom so on his first day. But Tom wasn't intimidated, and like the forthright person he was, assured Stewart that his personal life had nothing to do with his approach to reporting the news, and he wanted a chance to prove it, to make a difference in Ireland's quest for freedom. He certainly didn't want to give Stewart any reason to demote him to covering society teas and parties.

During workdays, Sybil would always be up before him, even when she had a late night shift at the hospital. She'd rise early to make him tea and boil him an egg for breakfast. Then she would sit across from him at their kitchen table and sip her own tea, quietly sharing a few minutes before he would kiss her and start his day.

This morning, she slept on. Tom rose and shuffled downstairs to the kitchen. He filled the kettle with water and a pot with some water. He thought briefly of making some toast with butter and jam for a change, knowing that Sybil liked her jam, but then decided to stick with the usual hardboiled egg. While he waited for the water to boil, he brought out his leather satchel and reread the anonymous letter that he received a few weeks ago. The envelope did not have a return address and was not postmarked, so he suspected it was delivered by messenger to the _Times'_ editorial office. The single sheet of paper was clean, creased only where it was folded in three sections, and typewritten. There was no stationer's imprint on the paper, so he had no clues as to who sent it. It contained only two sentences—but they were powerful enough to put the fear of God into him.

STOP MESSING WITH OUR BUSINESS.

OR YOU AND YOUR FAMILY ARE DEAD.

Steam was hissing from the teakettle and Tom startled. He went to take it off the burner, poured water into the teapot, and then poured himself a cup. When he turned back to the table he saw Sybil standing by his papers. He didn't know if she saw the letter. "Oh, I was just getting breakfast started," he said, moving over to sweep the papers back into his bag.

"Are you working this early?" Sybil asked.

"Well, yes, I've got a deadline." He saw her hesitate, looking like she wanted to say something else, but she was stopping herself. "What is it, Sybil?" He surprised himself at how curt he sounded.

"Can you come home on time tonight? I could use your help to plan a party for Mabel's birthday."

Tom sighed. "Can't Ma help you with that? I really can't."

"Tom…"

"What?" he asked impatiently. He saw her flinch, and instantly he was starting to hate himself for taking his stresses out on her. "I'm sorry. Really, Sybil, Stewart is being a bloody bastard and he is pressuring me to get this article done straightaway."

Sybil turned from the table and muttered, "Never mind," so Tom sipped his tea and fastened the satchel's clasps. But then Sybil turned back again. "Well, no, I want to say this: I want to go home for a while, Tom, and I want us both to go. I've had a letter from Mama—from months ago—and she and Papa want us to come to Downton for a long visit. I want to see them, especially with the baby coming. I'm going to get things sorted and prepare for the journey."

He put his teacup down and frowned. Mother of God! How long had she been planning this? Why didn't she tell him? He should have felt relief at this opportunity, this answer to a prayer that his family would be safe, but instead he felt excluded. A decision was made without notice, without consultation, and he felt deeply insulted. "You want to go on a holiday now, with all the work in front of me? And with damn Stewart just waiting for any kind of excuse to reassign me to dog and pony shite?"

"Don't be ridiculous, it's just a visit! Take a leave of absence!"

"Leave of absence! Christ, have you forgotten how long it's taken me to get onto Stewart's team? That now I have the chance to tell people what's really happening out there." He advanced, shaking his finger like he usually did when he got worked up. "Do you realize, there are actual news reports circulating that there is no active nationalist campaign going on here? That we're being _passive! _Imagine that—I don't see any passivity in my fellow Irishmen. Every country has its share of great people, every generation yields heroes. And finally, being on Stewart's team, I can be one of them."

"Oh don't get all philosophical on me, Tom Branson," Sybil waved her hand dismissively. "I'll go home without you, then."

Tom blinked, incredulous. Did she really stop caring about politics, about the shared beliefs that brought them together? Did she also say she was going _home_? "Sybil…"

Sybil started to tear up, her voice breaking. "I miss my family and I just want to be around them. I hardly ever see you anymore," She turned around. "And I haven't really felt loved lately," she muttered.

But it was loud enough for Tom to hear and he took her by the shoulders and turned her around to face him. "What do you mean, I don't make you feel loved? I haven't been working hard enough for you? What are you telling me exactly?"

"Nothing. I don't know why I said it." Even with that admission, he thought she still looked stubbornly defiant, not looking the least bit like she wanted to retract her outburst.

Tom's eyes narrowed, and he still held her shoulders. "No, I want to know what you meant by that. I know you, and there's more."

Sybil's tone, rising and shrill, matched his own flaring temper, and she shrugged his hands off abruptly. "I _am_ going home, don't try and stop me! I don't care what you think!"

His own threatening letter didn't seem to figure in his thoughts anymore. Like a bull that only saw the red cape waving before it, he focused only on her selfishness and his wounded pride. Something blinked in his head, black and red, and all he could focus on was feeling shut out, as though he could hear the heavy gates of a prison cell clanging together. He wasn't rational, and in a whirlpool of fury and hurt, Tom grabbed the ceramic teapot, knocking over his teacup, and threw it against the wall. Startled, Sybil froze and her eyes went wide. "No, you will not. By God, you will not," he said.

"Tom—"

"What do you want from me?" He shook his head, ran his palm over his mouth. "You want to go home, you want to leave me?" Then he blurted: "Maybe we shouldn't have gotten married!"

At that she bristled and steeled her glistening gaze. She swiped the tears from her cheek. "What do _you_ mean by that?"

"I don't know. I'm just saying words out loud. I think it and I say it, and maybe it's a truth." It was a shot across the bow, he knew, and again, his temper and mouth had gotten the better of him. He saw Sybil's mouth tremble, but he was still burning with rage, so he looked down to calm himself.

"Sod off, Tom."

The anger reignited and his eyes challenged hers. Now he was dismissive: "Yeah, well, I'm sorry you feel like that. I'm going to work." And then he went upstairs to change.

**x-x**

Wasn't she the one who encouraged his ambitions—at the garage at Downton? She said he shouldn't be wasting his time tinkering with an engine when he could be fighting for freedom. So here he was doing just that, and it hurt his feelings that it seemed like she no longer understood how important this work was to him. But he didn't know what hurt more: that she believed he wasn't a good husband, or that she acted like she just pulled her rank on him and decided that they would go. Just like that.

They'd had differences of opinion before, of course, but these squabbles almost always ended with immediate kisses and apologies. No disagreement was as heated as this one was; it didn't even hold a candle to when he insulted her by saying her work was as simple as serving drinks to a bunch of randy officers.

He didn't realize this could all be so hard: a new wife, a new job, a baby coming soon, and he desperately wanted to get it all right and to be good at everything. He wanted to prove to her, and to himself —perhaps even to her family—that she didn't lose on her bet, that she was right to choose him. He was also too proud; he didn't want to think about how bringing Sybil back to the safety and protection of Downton, away from the horrors of Dublin, would be perceived as defeat.

He thought about her condition, how disappointed she was at having to leave the hospital and spend long lonely hours at home, even with his mother and Mabel breaking up the monotony. He could tell by the stories that burst from her lips the moment he hung his hat that she'd been waiting all day to talk to him, to hear about his day and tell him about hers. But those conversations were one-sided; he didn't want to tell her about hunger strikers in prisons who were so committed to their cause that they forced their bodies to wither, disappearing bit by bit so that only an ideal is left in place of the man. He didn't want to tell her about how those jail cells were shadowy and dim, smelling like piss, the dank, putrid air conducive to decay. He especially didn't want to tell her about Saoirse.

**x-x**

The kiss Sybil gives him every morning is his talisman, his protection from the brutality he faces daily. His team is covering _Cogadh na Saoirse, _and he's been assigned to write about the Irish Transport and General Workers' Union strike. He interviews a driver who is livid that blackleg railway drivers were brought over from England to carry British troops. Tom is enthralled by the man's passionate rhetoric: the driver joined the strike on point of principle. He is full of relentless hatred, talks about spitting in the faces of these replacement drivers, and wants to kill the damned English who are holding his country hostage. He is responsible for keeping up the morale of the other lads on strike, because if they didn't keep together on this, they would fail, and failure, in his mind, is not an option. Tom is so caught up in the man's speeches he almost forgets to take notes; he feels something stirring in him, feels it reverberating in his bones, and he almost wants to be one of the lads, wanting to get the bloody English one way or another. Tom sees a former version of himself in this driver, alive and idealistic, and Sybil's kiss is rendered powerless. He and the driver laugh heartily, as though they are long-lost friends, and Tom tells him that he will make sure to quote him often in the piece.

A thin little girl comes out from the back bedroom, bedraggled and sleepy-eyed. Tom couldn't tell whether the color of her shabby dress had originally been brown or gray. She runs over to her father, who folds her in his arms and strokes her hair. "This is my girl, Saoirse," the man says. "Da," she nuzzles into his chest and her father's shirt becomes wet. "I'm hungry," she implores, looking up at him.

Tom's throat clenches and all of a sudden he sees the price of revolution in her. Freedom has a face: she looks like a little girl in a too large, dingy dress, who has cheekbones as sharp as the words that have been uttered in this house, who wants bread but is denied.

**x-x**

Still haunted by his argument with Sybil, Tom took an afternoon break. He needed something just to get through this day, and he stood in front of a pub, thinking that one pint or one shot of whiskey would be the antidote to the knots in his stomach he'd been feeling since leaving the house. He saw a couple of Tans stumbling out of the pub, drunk as all hell in the middle of the afternoon, so he turned and went into a church instead.

He never went to church without Sybil, but at this moment he needed a salve for his sick soul, some absolution for failing to make something of himself: to be a good newsman or a good husband. He wanted to believe there was hope for every fallen man. He crossed himself and genuflected before the crucifix, and entered the wooden pew. He knelt, and the hard wooden kneeler felt punishing against his knees, but he welcomed the discomfort. He breathed in the spicy scent of incense, focused on the body of Jesus, brutalized and pierced at the side, stabbed with thorns and nails, a symbol of great sacrifice for love. He prayed, "Dear Lord, please show me the way and give me strength, for myself, for Sybil, and for our family." Tom started to feel a measure of comfort as he prayed, beholding the kaleidoscope of color on the stained glass windows. He looked at the straight rows of candles, lined up like a marching army, but their soft flickering glows made each one individual, each one a supplication by the faithful to God that a personal request might be answered. Tom went over to St. Joseph, the patron saint of workers and fathers, and silently touched his cool marble feet. He didn't formulate any words in his mind—it was as though he trusted that the faithful husband of Mary understood what was in his heart.

The reverent silence was broken as a priest came out of the sacristy and noticed Tom. "You look in anguish, my son," he said softly. "Would you like to confess?" So Tom spent fifteen more minutes in church, then lit a candle in remembrance of his cousin, and went back to the office.

Returned to a state of grace, he now made his own decision, and he knew he had to show the letter to Stewart and tell him he needed to take his family away for a while. If Stewart couldn't hold his job for him, sod him, he'd just find another one. In the end, Sybil didn't deserve his neglect—however unintentional it had been. He had willingly waited years for her, setting aside his political ambitions, and he promised to devote himself to her happiness. He did not want to fail on that promise.

But how was he going to face her? Several times during the rest of the day he picked up the phone to talk to her, but only once did he talk to the operator to connect him to his home. Yet he didn't hear Sybil's greeting; he heard the voice of the operator telling him the line was busy. Maybe he should buy some flowers and get home now, before dark. A rough baritone shook him from his thoughts and Stewart was bellowing, "Stop your daydreaming and get some fucking writing done, Branson!" So Tom did, and he composed stanzas about the hue of her eyes, wrote verses about belonging to her and that she would never be alone, setting them to a cadence as musical as the sound of her laughter. If you're willing to tell somebody you love her, you must also be willing to say you're sorry. And when he finished, he put the poem in his pocket and packed up to go home.

**x-x**

Tom turned the key in the lock, trying to balance his leather satchel and a crinkly floral package in his arms. He wondered if Sybil was still awake. He expected her to be asleep, in bed upstairs. But the light was on in the sitting room and after laying the things on the hallway table, he found Sybil was dozed off on the sofa. Her knitting was perched on her belly; she was making a small lilac-colored blanket for the baby. Tom's mouth twisted up in a grin, as he noticed the irregular stitching and the slight wear of the yarn from continual pulling and re-stitching. Even with his mother's tutelage in those first few weeks when they arrived, Sybil had yet to master not just the roasts but also the knitting needles. She—the mother of his child—looked so heartstoppingly beautiful and radiant. His eyes fell to her hands, and the delicate gold ring he gave her. He remembered that after they were blessed as man and wife, he took her hand, and their fingers and rings touched. It looked so small and tight on her finger, and he had wanted her to wear it on a chain around her neck during her pregnancy, but Sybil refused to take it off. He took the poem from his pocket and put it in her knitting bag. Sybil stirred and a stray curl fell onto her cheek. He brushed it from her face and leaned down to kiss her gently, inhaling her rosy scent. She awoke, her long lashes fluttering open, eyelids heavy. "Tom?" She tried to shift and gain a comfortable sitting position.

"I'm here, _ma mhuirnín_." Tom knelt for the second time that day and took both her hands.

"I'm so sorry, my darling," Sybil leaned forward and touched her forehead to his. "I don't ever want—"

"Hush, I know." Tom shifted back, and meaning every word, said, "We'll leave here for now, we'll go to Downton."

* * *

_A/N: Story continues with "The Plans and Preparations of Paupers"._


End file.
